


304 - The Balance

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 04:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: An angst fic about recording The Balance, listening to it, and trying to get it right...





	304 - The Balance

**Then**

"You weren't fucking kidding about it being in the middle of nowhere, huh?" 

"Love, it's like… not even two hours from Dublin… And, it's gonna be class," 

"Yeah, you keep saying that but I'm still a bit freaked out about the whole no wifi thing, you know?" 

"I can still call ya, Y/N. Not going off to war or nothing… I'm dead excited. Did ya go on the website like I said to? It's real fuckin'… like, tranquil," 

"Tranquil?" you repeated, laughing. Where the hell did he even find those words? "Right. Not sure how fucking tranquil it will be after John gets in,"

"Speakin' of Bond. Reckon he's itchin' to see ya. Been ages since we've seen the lids," 

"I miss 'em," 

"Me too," Van agreed and you know he meant it. It didn't matter that he'd spent a literal majority of his life shoved into tight spaces with the guys, crowding each other and getting on each other's last nerves. He would always seek their company. 

"Ah, looky here!" Grouse Lodge came into view. 

Stepping out of the car, you breathed in the clean air. The place was more than picturesque, it was almost heaven on Earth. The sun setting over the horizon coloured the old stones of the buildings in pinks and oranges. Van's skin turned peachy in the twilight as he lead you to the main building. He walked with confidence, like he'd been there before. You knew he hadn't; he had just spent hours pouring over anything he could read about the place online. 

Grouse was a residential recording studio. Van had approved of the place because, "Good enough for Muse, good enough for me!" Its website had a black doggo lounging on its homepage. Van probably was sold at that too. 

There were two studios. Catfish would record for at least a month, making their (very) long awaited third album worth it for all the people dying to hear Van's voice again. He knew the fans were getting antsy, but he didn't spend any time on social media, therefore, didn't know the extent of the collective anticipation-turned-agony. Lucky. People were getting mean about it. 

Being the first of the band to arrive, Van had his choice of eight double rooms. You had to talk Van out of taking a room with a hideous four-post bed, complete with canopy. 

"It looks like something from a porn!" you whined. 

Van laughed and shrugged. "I thought it looked like what a gangster would have, innit?" 

"God, I love you, Ryan, but you can't go around using words like 'gangster,' yeah? Anyway, you're literally the least gangster person I know… Come on. Let's go back to the first one. It's closest to the studio so you won't wake anybody up when you're fuckin' about at three am."

…

**Now**

"Love, please don't hate me…" 

Sighing over the phone, you know what he is going to say before he says it. 

It wasn't exactly uncommon for Van to have to reschedule or bail last minute; the nature of trying to make a band big partly consisted of ass kissing and last minute opportunities. Just because you were used to it though, didn't make it hurt any less. It probably made it worse that the night was his idea to begin with. 

Van was meant to be home when The Balance was released. He was meant to be by your side when the clock struck twelve, Spotify was refreshed, and that stupid fucking toucan was lighting up your laptop screen. There would be wine and cheese and probably giggly sex. That was the plan. 

Van said he cared about what you thought most. He wanted to watch you listen to the album from start to finish, wanted to watch your expression and hear all your thoughts. It was his idea to be home, be with you when it went public, and he wasn't even fucking here. 

"I know ya dyin' to hear it, so don't wait for me. I'll be back first thing in the mornin'… An' I'll bring ya a bagel to say sorry and everythin'," 

"Yep. All good," you reply, not able to say much else. 

"_Please_ don't hate me, Y/N," he begs again. 

"Van, don't- don't say that. You know I don't hate you… It's okay. Go do what you have to. It's okay." 

After the call, you sulk around the place for the rest of the day. There's a salty part of you that considers not even listening to the album. It could be your own little revenge. Van would bounce through the door, tired but excited to see you and hear your opinions. You could shrug and play it off like it wasn't a big deal. 

You shake the thought from your head about as fast as it had appeared. 

Regardless of how hurt and salty you are, there's a bigger part of you dying to hear the record. Although you've heard bits and pieces during your visits to Grouse, and had of course had the singles on repeat, you'd not actually gained much of an idea of what The Balance was as a finished product.

…

**Then**

"Why's he called Jacknife?" you asked Van when he returned from having a quick smoke before bed. In the few days you'd been there, you'd learnt that Grouse had so many beautiful sneaky spots for a sneaky smoko. 

Van kicked off his boots and crawled across the bed to you. "Ah… Dunno… Think it's like, a stage name or somethin'. It's cool, but," 

"Yeah. What's his real name?" 

"Garret," Van answered immediately. Van placed importance in names. Knowing someone's name was a sign of respect. It's why he introduced himself to almost every person he came into contact with. 

"Jacknife is definitely cooler… I could Google it… Where the name comes from. But, you know, we have no internet." 

Van rolled his eyes and got up. "Bored already, my love? Got no imagination, do ya?" 

"Rude. Go on, then. Name… five things I could do right now." 

Van loved a challenge. "Fuckin' easy. One: sex." 

You realised you knew he would say that, but it made you laugh anyway. You threw a pillow across the room at him, but he caught it and threw it back. 

He continued, "Two: pillow fight. Three: shower. Four: shower sex-"

"No! That one don't count because it's just the same as sex," you interrupted. 

"Fine. Four… We could go for a little night walk. And, finally… Five…" 

Van had clearly run out of ideas. He was standing still, his fingers doing a dance while his mind ticked over. The room was silent and the bed you were in was warm, and you were completely in the moment. 

"Oh!" he suddenly yelled, making a _why didn't I think of this sooner?_ face. "Spa's open 24/7!" 

…

**Now**

It's easy listening to The Balance in the beginning. The first four tracks have already been set upon the world in all their glory. Longshot and 2all have videos too. Filming them back to back was mostly fun… Van definitely thought he was a better driver than he was. And, the very old Jeep did not help at all. The bonfire almost felt like old times, if it weren't for the crewmembers and many cameras around the place. 

Longshot is one of those songs with lyrics pulled from everywhere. "Loved up," being the chosen phrase by the guys to tease Van when he first met you, is your favourite. Listening to the song is like listening to a mashup of greatest lines Van has overheard in the past couple of years. Listening to the song is like listening to Van McCann yell 'yeah, fuck you, watch us fill stadiums forever.'

Fluctuate, which had been floating around for a while now, was finally getting its airtime. Van had been mumbling and whining out lyrics to that during the bridge of Business for too long. Of course, you were the girl with your arm up to the sky, acting out lyrics like you were the star of the show. 

2all made you go _'awwwwww'_ every time you heard it. One of your favourite things about Van is how big and hard he loves everyone. It's pure and wholesome and 2all encapsulates that perfectly. However, you had lost the argument about how dumb it was to name it '2all.' Van said it was, "like a footy thing, babe." 

Track four, Conversation, was an ode to Bernie for the most part. Van premiered it to you and his parents in their kitchen late one afternoon. Everyone had already had a few. Mary, red-cheeked and a little tipsy complained, "Why you always bloody puttin' him in ya songs but not me? I was the one that did all the hard work in makin' ya!" 

The video for it would be out soon. Van let you sneak a look at the treatment. "Please tell me you're using some of the stuff Bob got on film, yeah?" you asked immediately. #Bobcam was a gift to humanity. 

In the few seconds of silence between track four and five, you feel your lungs take in as much air as possible. Then, Sidetrack. All that air gets punched straight out of you. Somewhere in your head, Van's voice yelling, "Tune!" about his own fucking music rings out. You know he'd be proud of that riff, even if Bondy was the one to write it. Sidetrack is angsty, like Fluctuate, but has a vulnerable softness. It's killing you. Van not being with you to hear it for the first time is killing you. Then the line, "…it's like tryna' talk to God and she's forgot your name…" 

If you'd asked Van why he referred to God as a woman, you would get a wildcard answer. There would be no predicting it. Van definitely thought women were like, all goddesses walking around on Earth. But the lyric could also just be because it sounded better… because he thought the fans would like it… because he couldn't decide… because someone told him gender was a social construct and although he didn't get what that meant he knew it was important to somebody out there. It's Van… who the hell could ever work him out? 

Track six means you're halfway there. You'd never admit it, but maybe it was a good idea to hear this alone. The way Van's voice breaks with emotion in Encore, "Trust me," makes you want to simultaneously want to sob, and fuck him. He's begging, and it's a familiar sound to you. A sound that squeezes your heart. 

Basically provides a little relief, and even a little laugh. You can picture Steve's face perfectly, all frowny and frustrated when you and Van rip through the stage doors late. It's only happened a couple of times, but that's enough for Van to put it to paper. Sassy fuck. 

It happens again in track eight. Harder though. Intermission is a risk. It's not typical Catfish. Not typical Van. But it's genius and it's fucking golden and the tears rolling down your cheeks sting when they hit the chapped, dry parts of your lips. You want to tell Van. Need to tell him. Where the absolute fuck is he? The song softens and curls downwards and relaunches into Mission. 

He'd said it once before. It was early on in the relationship. Somehow you'd ended up on the top tier of a wooden castle in a playground at two am. Van had lit a cigarette and you'd taken it off him. "Hey! I needed that!" he'd complained, voice high pitched, edged in humour. The conversation ended in a list of the ways Van would change for you, get better for you. You squealed in protest, not wanting to change him. "Nah, nah, babe. You got me. You own me thoughts now." 

Then, there was Sydney. If you let yourself think about the Sydney dream, you'd just fucking die. 

Track ten. Because the story was easy to follow, people would think it was real. You couldn't place it, though. Maybe it was someone else's. Maybe Van was testing his imagination. Coincide was placed well. It was the bowl of coffee beans at the perfume bar. 

Catfish songs did one of two things. Ones like Coincide went exactly how you expected them to. Then, there were ones like Overlap that were Frankenstein's monsters - different sounds and sections stitched together to form something amazing and alive. It crashed to an abrupt ending that left you wondering if Van thought about the past more than you knew. Did he believe in fate? What's your boy to do? 

Before Spotify could play you any more of Van's voice, or anything else its algorithm deemed similar, you slammed your laptop shut. 

… 

**Then**

"That was the one you've been singing live, isn't it?" you asked, standing on your tippy toes to try to see over Van and push by him. 

He was ushering you out of the room, laughing at your inability to fight your way out of his arms. "Babe! Told ya studio is off limits. Gotta plan-"

"I know, I know!" you interrupted, then in your best Van voice, "Oh, oh hiya! I'm Van! I'm called Van! 'Ave you met me best mate Larry? I got a ten year plan! At exactly six sixteen two thirds of the population can listen to my very class TUUUUNE." 

The impression was spot on. You could hear the guys laughing. Van had nothing. He just held back a smile and shook his head. 

"I got 'bout four more hours with you, babe. I don't wanna share ya with that lot. Come on." 

Back in the room you and Van had quickly made a home, the scene played out how it always did when you were going to be apart for a while. There was laughing and a bit of crying and at least twenty different types of kisses. 

"Just promise me one thing, yeah?" you whispered. 

"Anythin'," 

"I know you love Tim's fuckin' drunk toucan, but just… take a look at some of the other stuff he sent, okay?"

Two hours later he was putting you in a car back to the city with a promise not to reject the toucan, but to call you as much as he could and to see you real soon. He said he'd make the album amazing, just for you, and that you'd listen to it together. Everything would be perfect. 

…

**Now**

The smell of coffee comes on so strong and so unexpected that it churns your stomach badly enough that you bolt upright in bed and begin coughing. 

"Fuck!" 

The sound of paper, cardboard. More cussing. Gentle hands on you. 

"I'm okay, I'm okay," you say between coughs. 

Only now do your eyes open. Van looks tired, worried, sorry. 

Have you ever been woken up by a smell before? Did he shove the cup under your nose? Probably. The moment becomes clear now that you're waking up. Van is kneeling next to the bed. He stands and moves between actions, unsure what he should do. He needs help. 

"You bring bagels?" 

He grins ear to ear, then picks up his breakfast delivery and walks from the room. At first you can't put your finger on why it's seeming so sad. Following him out into the kitchen, you figure it out. You're a little bit heartbroken. 

As you sit at the kitchen table and watch Van put a cup of coffee in front of you, you space out a little. He's talking a lot and it's fast and you're not catching a single word of it. The bagels are already cut in half, and if you'd noticed that you'd be happy because when Van cuts them he can never get them even and he leaves crumbs everywhere. As they toast under the grill, Van goes on auto-pilot and begins to make tea. Neither of you really register that he's doing it. It's just what happens in the kitchen. 

"Babe? You sure you're okay?" 

"Sorry… Sorry, what'd you say?" you reply.

"What…" For a second he thinks he should ask again. Instead, "What do you want on it?" he asks, waving a bagel at you. 

Van goes quiet when you give a half shrug and say you'll have whatever he's having. 

He's halfway through his bagel when the sadness on your face and the heaviness in the air becomes too suffocating. Van's really fucking good at letting things slide, ignoring things, watching them just play out. But he's not wanted to be like that with you. You mean too much to be passive, complacent. 

"Y/N… You know I'm proper sorry… An' not just for not being here… 'Cause we planned it and everything."

You're chewing on your lip and even though you know it's going to hurt, you look up at him sitting across from you. Van's expression is so fucking sincere. He's waiting for you to accept the apology, or even better - tell him he doesn't need to say it in the first place. 

"I… I understand," you say because you do. The problem isn't that you expect anything different, honestly. "I know it's not, like… your fault… Like you don't hurt me on purpose-"

The flinch is violent enough that it stops your sentence. Van knows you're hurt, but that is a hell of a lot different to hearing out loud that he's the catalyst of that pain. 

"Just-Just fuckin' come with me, Y/N. Everywhere." It almost sounds like one long word because of the pace of his speech. Suddenly, he's on his knees in front of you, holding onto your legs for dear life. "We can do that now. Got the money and the nobody will care and you can just come with me-" 

"Van! Stop! Jesus," you say louder than you mean to. Van flinches again. "I can't just… I'm not just your girlfriend, you know? I can't just follow you around everywhere," 

"Why?" he asks. And, he's got a fucking point. "Babe, I know you. I know us. We're better together, right? I'm better with you. Happy. And, and it's not just following me around. There's loads of stuff you can do. You're always on your fuckin' laptop doing stuff, yeah? So smart you can run an empire from that little thing… I just… I can't keep makin' promises and plans and letting you down… I'm so, so fuckin' scared you'll just…" He pauses, shrugs, then slumps hard into the ground. "Leave."

Your head empties. It's not the crystal clear clarity type of empty; it's the screaming television static noise forcing every other thought to evacuate the space empty. It's exhausting to feel and painful with pressure. You just want this to be over. 

"I'm not gonna leave," you tell him, voice too croaky with sadness to sound entirely sure of itself. You're not reassuring Van of anything. "I'm not… I just…" Breathing out hard, you look away from Van. His expression is easily readable; he's waiting on you to fix this moment and solve all the problems. 

While your studying cracks in the ceiling paint, trying not to sob, Van's head hangs and he folds into your lap. You can feel his forehead on your thighs and his tears wetting your pyjama pants. Telling him to stop crying would sound cold, but you desperately needed him to stop. Happy people should never be this sad. 

Catfish and the Bottlemen are known for their abrupt endings. Songs can finish mid-lyric. Albums end at the highest peaks. Shows are left encoreless. You've always put that down to Van wanting to go out on a bang, not a fizzle. Life though, life isn't like that.


End file.
